He told no one about his farewell with Leesa, but somehow everyone knew. He received a letter from his mother, filled with baffled recrimination, and one from his sister, filled with some of the harshest language anyone had ever addressed to him. At work, he caught a few sidelong glances of pity or rebuke from his indigo coworkers, depending on their own level of happiness in their relationships, and Melina took him out to lunch again.

“I won’t pry,” she said, “but you could at least tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Like I’ve been pummeled and battered, every day, every night.”

“Well, then!” she exclaimed. “Go back in-country—make up with her—I’m sure she’ll listen to your excuses.”

Nolan shook his head. “Can’t,” he said. “It feels like the wrong thing to have done, but I know it was the right one.”

“Maybe in a few weeks you’ll feel differently,” she suggested.

He shook his head again and declined to answer, merely taking another bite of his casserole. Melina sighed loudly and turned her attention to the hard copy she’d purchased on their way in. She had said she was looking for news about the grain export levels, but she appeared to be reading even the most obscure items with equal interest.

Suddenly, she let loose an indistinct exclamation of surprise. “I can’t believe it! They’ve released Jex Zanlan!”

Nolan’s food turned to rubble in his mouth. He swallowed carefully and said, “What did you say?”

She pointed at the paper. “Jex Zanlan. They’ve let him out of prison. Yesterday morning, apparently.”

“I don’t believe it,” he said.

“Well, it says so right here. But isn’t that strange? I mean, everybody assumes he’s the one behind the bombing of the Centrifuge, not to mention the troubles at the Carbonnier Extension and the medical building, so why would they—Nolan? Where are you going? Nolan?”

For he had jumped to his feet, flung money on the table, and headed toward the door. If Ariana Bayless had released Jex Zanlan, that could only mean one thing.

*   *   *

He waited till nightfall, and then he took the cross-town trolley to West One. This time, the colorful houses along Elmtree looked less strange to him, more inviting. He imagined the daily routines inside, the fathers and sons going off to work every day, the mothers and the daughters preparing the food and working in the gardens, each member of the household knowing his place, oiling one component of the domestic machine. Not the life Nolan wanted, no, but with its own symmetry and peace. Sometimes, lately, he knew he would be happier living a life in which his role was defined, his every movement forecast and expected.

Well, he had had such a life, and he had given it up. Now, till the end of his days, he would be guessing.